‘Who are they?’ she asked, sinking her voice very low.
‘He is one; – and you are the other. You know that.’
‘I hoped that I was one,’ she said. ‘But if you love Tregear so dearly, why do you not approve of him for your sister?’
‘I always knew it would not do.’
‘But why not?’
‘Mary ought to marry a man of higher standing.’
‘Of higher rank you mean. The daughters of Dukes have married commoners before.’
‘It is not exactly that. I don't like to talk of it in that way. I knew it would make my father unhappy. In point of fact he can't marry her. What is the good of approving of a thing that is impossible?’
‘I wish I knew your sister. Is she – firm?’
‘Indeed she is.’
‘I am not so sure that you are.’
‘No,’ said he, after considering awhile; ‘nor am I. But she is not like Gerald or me. She is more obstinate.’
‘Less fickle perhaps.’
‘Yes, if you choose to call it fickle. I don't know that I am fickle. If I were in love with a girl I should be true to her.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Quite sure. If I were really in love with her I certainly should not change. It is possible that I might be bullied out of it.’
‘But she will not be bullied out of it?’
‘Mary? No. That is just it. She will stick to it if he does.’
‘I would if I were she. Where will you find any young man equal to Frank Tregear?’
‘Perhaps you mean to cut poor Mary out.’
‘That isn't a nice thing for you to say, Lord Silverbridge. Frank is my cousin, – as indeed you are also; but it so happens that I have seen a great deal of him all my life. And, though I don't want to cut your sister out, as you so prettily say, I love him well enough to understand that any girl whom he loves ought to be true to him.’ So far what she said was very well, but she afterwards added a word which might have been wisely omitted. ‘Frank and I are almost beggars.’
‘What an accursed thing money is,’ he exclaimed, jumping up from his chair.
‘I don't agree with you at all. It is a very comfortable thing.’
‘How is anybody who has got it to know if anybody cares for him?’
‘You must find that out. There is such a thing I suppose as real sympathy.’
‘You tell me to my face that you and Tregear would have been lovers only that you are both poor.’
‘I never said anything of the kind.’
‘And that he is to be passed on to my sister because it is supposed that she will have some money.’
‘You are putting words into my mouth which I never spoke, and ideas into my mind which I never thought.’
‘And of course I feel the same about myself. How can a fellow help it? I wish you had a lot of money, I know.’
‘It is very kind of you; – but why?’
‘Well; – I can't quite explain myself,’ he said, blushing as was his wont. ‘I daresay it wouldn't make any difference.’
‘It would make a great difference to me. As it is, having none, and knowing as I do that papa and Percival are getting things into a worse mess every day, I am obliged to hope that I may some day marry a man who has got an income.’
‘I suppose so,’ said he, still blushing, but frowning at the same time.
‘You see I can be very frank with a real friend. But I am sure of myself in this – that I will never marry a man I do not love. A girl needn't love a man unless she likes it, I suppose. She doesn't tumble into love as she does into the fire. It would not suit me to marry a poor man, and so I don't mean to fall in love with a poor man.’
‘But you do mean to fall in love with a rich one?’
‘That remains to be seen, Lord Silverbridge. The rich man will at any rate have to fall in love with me first. If you know of any one you need not tell him to be too sure because he has a good income.’
‘There's Popplecourt. He's his own master, and, fool as he is, he knows how to keep his money.’
‘I don't want a fool. You must do better for me than Lord Popplecourt.’
‘What do you say to Dolly Longstaff?’
‘He would be just the man, only he never would take the trouble to come out and be married.’
‘Or Glasslough?’
‘I'm afraid he is cross, and wouldn't let me have my own way.’
‘I can only think of one other; – but you would not take him.’
‘Then you had better not mention him. It is no good crowding the list with impossibles.’
‘I was thinking of – myself.’
‘You are certainly one of the impossibles.’
‘Why, Lady Mab?’
‘For twenty reasons. You are too young, and you are bound to oblige your father, and you are to be wedded to Parliament, – at any rate for the next ten years. And altogether it wouldn't do, – for a great many reasons.’
‘I suppose you don't like me well enough?’
‘What a question to ask! No; my Lord, I do not. There; that's what you may call an answer. Don't you pretend to look offended, because if you do, I shall laugh at you. If you may have your joke surely I may have mine.’
‘I don't see any joke in it.’
‘But I do. Suppose I were to say the other thing. Oh, Lord Silverbridge, you do me so much honour! And now I come to think about it, there is no one in the world I am so fond of as you. Would that suit you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But it wouldn't suit me. There's papa. Don't run away.’
‘It's ever so much past five,’ said the legislator, ‘and I had intended to be in the House more than an hour ago. Good-bye. Give my love to Miss Cassewary.’
‘Certainly. Miss Cassewary is your most devoted friend. Won't you bring your sister to see me some day?’
‘When she is in town I will.’
‘I should so like to know her. Good-bye.’
As he hurried down to the House in a hansom he thought over it all, and told himself that he feared it would not do. She might perhaps accept him, but if so, she would do it simply in order that she might become Duchess of Omnium. She might, he thought, have accepted him then, had she chosen. He had spoken plainly enough. But she had laughed at him. He felt that if she loved him, there ought to have been something of that feminine tremor, of that doubting, hesitating half-avowal of which he had perhaps read in novels, and which his own instincts taught him to desire. But there had been no tremor nor hesitating. ‘No; my Lord, I do not,’ she had said when he asked her to her face whether she liked him well enough to be his wife. ‘No; my Lord, I do not.’ It was not the refusal conveyed in these words which annoyed him. He did believe that if he were to press his suit with the usual forms she would accept him. But it was that there should be such a total absence of trepidation in her words and manner. Before her he blushed and hesitated and felt that he did not know how to express himself. If she would only have done the same, then there would have been an equality. Then he could have seized her in his arms and sworn that never, never, never would he care for any one but her.
In truth he saw everything as it was only too truly. Though she might choose to marry him if he pressed his request, she would never subject herself to him as he would have the girl do whom he loved. She was his superior, and in every word uttered between them showed that it was so. But yet how beautiful she was; – how much more beautiful than any other thing he had ever seen!
He sat on one of the high seats behind Sir Timothy Beeswax and Sir Orlando Drought,1 listening, or pretending to listen, to the speeches of three or four gentlemen respecting sugar, thinking of all this till half-past seven; - and then he went to dine with the proud consciousness of having done his duty. The forms and methods of the House were, he flattered himself, soaking into him gradually, - as his father had desired. The theory of legislation was sinking into his mind. The welfare of the nation depended
chiefly on sugar. But he thought that, after all, his own welfare must depend on the possession of Mab Grex.
CHAPTER 20
Then He Will Come Again
Lady Mabel, when her young lover left her, was for a time freed from the necessity of thinking about him by her father. He had returned from the Oaks in a very bad humour. Lord Grex had been very badly treated by his son, whom he hated worse than any one else in the world. On the Derby-day he had won a large sum of money, which had been to him at the time a matter of intense delight, – for he was in great want of money. But on this day he had discovered that his son and heir had lost more than he had won, and an arrangement had been suggested to him that his winnings should go to pay Percival's losings. This was a mode of settling affairs to which the Earl would not listen for a moment, had he possessed the power of putting a veto upon it. But there had been a transaction lately between him and his son with reference to the cutting off a certain entail under which money was to be paid to Lord Percival. This money had not yet been forthcoming, and therefore the Earl was constrained to assent. This was very distasteful to the Earl, and he came home therefore in a bad humour, and said a great many disagreeable things to his daughter. ‘You know, papa, if I could do anything I would.’ This she said in answer to a threat, which he had made often before and now repeated, of getting rid altogether of the house in Belgrave Square. Whenever he made this threat he did not scruple to tell her that the house had to be kept up solely for her welfare. ‘I don't see why the deuce you don't get married. You'll have to do it sooner or later.’ That was not a pleasant speech for a daughter to hear from her father. ‘As to that,’ she said, ‘it must come or not as chance will have it. If you want me to sign anything I will sign it; – for she had been asked to sign papers, or in other words to surrender rights; – ‘but for that other matter it must be left to myself.’ Then he had been very disagreeable indeed.
They dined out together, – of course with all the luxury that wealth can give. There was a well-appointed carriage to take them backwards and forwards to the next square, such as an Earl should have. She was splendidly dressed, as became an Earl's daughter, and he was brilliant with some star which had been accorded to him by his sovereign's grateful minister in return for staunch parliamentary support. No one looking at them could have imagined that such a father could have told such a daughter that she must marry herself out of the way, because as an unmarried girl she was a burden.
During the dinner she was very gay. To be gay was the habit, – we may almost say the work, – of her life. It so chanced that she sat between Sir Timothy Beeswax, who in these days was a very great man indeed, and that very Dolly Longstaff, whom Silverbridge in his irony had proposed to her as a fitting suitor for her hand.
‘Isn't Lord Silverbridge a cousin of yours?’ asked Sir Timothy.
‘A very distant one.’
‘He has come over to us, you know. It is such a triumph.’
‘I was so sorry to hear it.’ This, however, as the reader knows, was a fib.
‘Sorry!’ said Sir Timothy. ‘Surely Lord Grex's daughter must be a Conservative.'
‘Oh yes; – I am a Conservative because I was born one. I think that people in politics should remain as they are born, – unless they are very wise indeed. When men come to be statesmen and all that kind of thing, of course they can change backwards and forwards.’
‘I hope that is not intended for me, Lady Mabel.’
‘Certainly not. I don't know enough about it to be personal.’ That, however, was again not quite true. ‘But I have the greatest possible respect for the Duke, and I think it a pity that he should be made unhappy by his son. Don't you like the Duke?’
‘Well; – yes; – in a way. He is a most respectable man; and has been a good public servant.’
‘All our lot are ruined you know,’ said Dolly, talking of the races.
‘Who are your lot, Mr Longstaff?
‘I'm one myself.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I'm utterly smashed. Then there's Percival.’
‘I hope he has not lost much. Of course you know he's my brother.’
‘Oh laws; – so he is. I always put my foot in it. Well; – he has lost a lot. And so have Silverbridge and Tifto. Perhaps you don't know Tifto.’
‘I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr Tifto.’
‘He is a major. I think you'd like Major Tifto. He's a sort of racing coach to Silverbridge. You ought to know Tifto. And Tregear is pretty nearly cleared out.’
‘Mr Tregear! Frank Tregear!’
‘I'm told he has been hit very heavy. I hope he's not a friend of yours, Lady Mabel.’
‘Indeed he is; – a very dear friend and a cousin.’
‘That's what I hear. He's very much with Silverbridge you know.’
‘I cannot think that Mr Tregear has lost money.’
‘I hope he hasn't. I know I have. I wish someone would stick up for me, and say that it was impossible.’
‘But that is not Mr Tregear's way of living. I can understand that Lord Silverbridge or Percival should lose money.’
‘Or me?’
‘Or you, if you like to say so.’
‘Or Tifto?’
‘I don't know anything about Mr Tifto.’
‘Major Tifto.’
‘Or Major Tifto; – what does it signify?’
‘No; – of course. We inferior people may lose our money just as we please. But a man who can look as clever as Mr Tregear ought to win always.’
‘I told you just now that he was a friend of mine.’
‘But don't you think that he does look clever?’ There could be no question but that Tregear, when he disliked his company, could show his dislike by his countenance; and it was not improbable that he had done so in the presence of Mr Adolphus Longstaff. ‘Now tell the truth, Lady Mabel; does he not look conceited sometimes?’
‘He generally looks as if he knew what he was talking about, which is more than some other people do.’
‘Of course he is a great deal more clever than I am. I know that. But I don't think even he can be so clever as he looks, “Or you so stupid,” that's what you ought to say now.’
‘Sometimes, Mr Longstaff, I deny myself the pleasure of saying what I think.’
When all this was over she was very angry with herself for the anxiety she had expressed about Tregear. This Mr Longstaff was, she thought, exactly the man to report all she had said in the public room at the club. But she had been annoyed by what she had heard as to her friend. She knew that he of all men should keep himself free from such follies. Those others had, as it were, a right to make fools of themselves. It had seemed so natural that the young men of her own class should dissipate their fortunes and their reputations by every kind of extravagance! Her father had done so, and she had never even ventured to hope that her brother would not follow her father's example. But Tregear, if he gave way to such follies as these, would soon fall headlong into a pit from which there would be no escape. And if he did fall, she knew herself well enough to be aware that she could not stifle, nor even conceal, the misery which this would occasion her. As long as he stood well before the world she would be well able to assume indifference. But were he to be precipitated into some bottomless misfortunes then she could only throw herself after him. She could see him marry, and smile, and perhaps even like his wife. And while he was doing so, she could also marry, and resolve that the husband whom she took should be made to think that he had a loving wife. But were Frank to die, then must she fall upon his body as though he had been known by all the world to be her lover. Something of this feeling came upon her now, when she heard that he had been betting and had been unfortunate. She had been unable so to subdue herself as to seem to be perfectly careless about it. She had begun by saying that she had not believed it; but she had believed it. It was so natural that Tregear should have done as the others did with whom he lived! But then the misfortune would be to him so terrible,
so irremediable! The reader, however, may as well know at once that there was not a word of truth in the assertion.
After the dinner she went home alone. There were other festivities to be attended, had she pleased to attend them; and poor Miss Cassewary was dressed ready to go with her as chaperone; – but Miss Cassewary was quite satisfied to be allowed to go to bed in lieu of Mrs Montacute Jones's1 great ball. And she had gone to her bedroom when Lady Mabel went to her. ‘I am glad you are alone,’ she said, ‘because I want to speak to you.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Everything is wrong. Papa says he must give up this house.’
‘He says that almost always when he comes back from the races, and very often when he comes back from the club.’
‘Percival has lost ever so much.’
‘I don't think my Lord will hamper himself for your brother.’
‘I can't explain it, but there is some horrible money complication. It is hard upon you and me.’
‘Who am I?’ said Miss Cassewary.
‘About the dearest friend that ever a poor girl had. It is hard upon you, – and upon me. I have given up everything, – and what good have I done?’
‘It is hard, my dear.’
‘But after all I do not care much for all that. The thing has been going on so long that one is used to it.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Ah; – yes; – what is it? How am I to tell you?’
‘Surely you can tell me,’ said the old woman, putting out her hand so as to caress the arm of the younger one.
‘I could tell no one else; I am sure of that. Frank Tregear has taken to gambling, – like the rest of them.’
‘Who says so?’
‘He has lost a lot of money at these races. A man who sat next me at dinner, – one of those stupid do-nothing fools that one meets everywhere, – told me so. He is one of the Beargarden set, and of course he knows all about it.’
‘Did he say how much?’
‘How is he to pay anything? Of all things that men do this is the worst. A man who would think himself disgraced for ever if he accepted a present of money will not scruple to use all his wits to rob his friend of everything that he has by studying the run of cards or by watching the paces of some brutes of horses! And they consider themselves to be fine gentlemen! A real gentleman should never want the money out of another man's pocket; – should never think of money at all.’
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